


Curse in Disguise

by Quasar



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 10:52:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2065386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasar/pseuds/Quasar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rafe's past comes back to haunt Jim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curse in Disguise

**Author's Note:**

> Written March 1998. For Barb and Bonita, who made it possible.

"Okay, boys, ante up. The game is five card stud." Taggart, wearing a baseball cap reversed on his head, flicked the cards around the table like a professional.

"I'm gonna have to give this up soon, before I go broke." Simon shook his head over the hand he'd been given, but he pushed the glasses up his nose as he spoke. Blair recognized the tall captain's 'tell'; he was holding a good hand.

"Give me two," said Rafe, tossing a couple of cards towards Taggart.

"Hey, Sandburg, you got any more of that salsa?" Brown demanded.

"Uh, sure man, just a second. I'll take one, Joel." Blair examined the new card before setting his hand face down on the table.

"Ah-ah! Hold it right there, Simon," said Jim suddenly.

The captain froze with his hand inches from his breast pocket. "C'mon, Jim!" he complained. "I'm your commanding officer."

"Yes, sir, but that doesn't mean I'll throw a poker game for you, and it sure as hell doesn't mean you can smoke in my loft."

Simon sighed. "All right, Jim, I know how sensitive your sinuses are." His deep voice lifted briefly into a gravelly falsetto that brought chuckles from the other men.

"Chief, could you grab a few more beers while you're up?" Jim abandoned the subject and returned to studying his cards impenetrably. There was a tiny line between his brows, which usually meant a bad hand. Then again, he might be frowning at Simon's teasing, or something unrelated which no one else could hear or feel or smell.

As he spooned salsa into a bowl, Blair shot a glance at the TV, wondering if that could be what was bothering Jim. The local news was on, muted too low for anyone but a Sentinel to hear. Pictures of wedge-shaped jets over a desert flashed on the screen, followed by what looked like a high school photo of a grinning young man.

Rafe followed Blair's gaze as he returned to the table with arms laden. "Hey, turn this up, will you?"

"It's just the news," said Jim, his back to the screen. "They're talking about that pilot."

"Shh!" Rafe hissed urgently as Blair dug the remote out from under a bag of tortilla chips.

" . . . memorial service held by the family of the downed fighter pilot," said the announcer's voice over a picture of a crowded church door seen past yellow-ribboned trees. "Meanwhile, at Fort Brickman, troops run desert exercises while waiting to hear if they will be called to serve in the Gulf. For KCDE news, this is Kerri Goldin."

Rafe let out his breath slowly. "It's all starting again," he said softly, his cards tipping forgotten towards the table. "I thought this was over seven years ago."

As the commercials started, Blair hit mute again and returned to his own abandoned hand. "It's never going to be over as long as America's imperialist pride is in question."

Disbelieving snorts echoed around the table. "What the hell does it have to do with imperialism?" Simon demanded. "It's not like we're planning to annex Iraq."

"Not legally, but economically and culturally, that's exactly what we're doing," Blair argued. "America is the world's policeman -- why? Because we can't have our oil supplies threatened, and because we do things the right way and everybody else should too."

"But Saddam is stockpiling chemical and biological weapons!" Rafe protested.

"And America isn't? Our allies aren't? No, we just can't let anyone who disagrees with our lifestyle have that kind of power." Blair spoke as if this were all perfectly obvious, while his companions stared in disbelief.

"So you're saying you believe what that minister keeps saying about how it's all an Anglo plot against the Arabs?" Taggart laughed.

"Well, yeah, that's part of it. We just can't trust those kinds of weapons to people with skin darker than ours."

"Sandburg, in case you hadn't noticed," Simon pointed out sardonically, "Saddam has lighter skin than half the people at this table."

"Um, yeah. Sorry. But I mean it's an ethno-cultural sort of thing."

"No, it's common sense. Saddam's a madman who can't be trusted." Rafe leaned forward earnestly. "He used those weapons against Kurds in his own country. He's the one with the cultural prejudices! Hell, Sandburg, you're Jewish -- I can't believe you're arguing in favor of the Iraqis!"

Blair blinked. "Speaking of cultural prejudices . . ."

Simon held his hands up. "C'mon, guys, are we here to talk politics or play poker? Whose bid is it -- Brown?"

"Yeah. Five bucks," Brown said hastily.

Rafe slammed his hand down in the middle of the table, scattering chips. "Saddam has to be stopped. And if America doesn't do it, who will?"

Blair shook his head. "That's just what the government wants us to believe, man, but it's all about money! Why the hell do you think gas is so cheap in this country?"

Rafe surged to his feet, knocking the chair over behind him and ignoring the hand Simon laid on his arm. "I was there," he growled across the table. "I saw what the Iraqis are like. Don't you tell me it's all a bunch of crap, because I was there!"

Blair leaned back, instinctively drawing a little closer to Jim's side.

"Rafe, take it easy, man," Simon murmured. "Just calm down."

The detective shook off his captain's restraining hand. "I gotta go." He looked around the loft as if hoping to find some excuse. "I just -- I gotta go." He grabbed his jacket from the back of the couch and was out the door within seconds.

Taggart whuffed a sigh of relief.

"Nice going, Hairboy," Brown muttered darkly.

"I didn't know," Blair protested. "How come nobody told me he was a Gulf veteran?"

"Don't look at me," Jim said. "I thought he'd been with the PD since the late Eighties."

"He was," Simon told them wearily. "But he was in the Reserves, and he got called up in '91."

"Oh, man!" Blair rubbed a hand over his face. "If I'd known, I would've kept my mouth shut!"

"Sure you would," Brown returned.

Taggart was scooping Rafe's abandoned winnings into a pile. "Blair, you don't really believe all that stuff you said, do you?"

Blair looked at the rest of them a little wildly. "Well -- I sure as hell don't believe what I see on the news. I mean, even if it is true, it's only a piece of the whole story. We have no real idea what's going on out there!"

"That's right, we don't," said Jim placidly. "That's why we let the leaders make the decisions." He stood up and got a bag from the kitchen to put Rafe's money in.

"What, and we blindly obey them? What if you don't trust the leaders?"

"Then don't join the Army." Jim handed the bag to Taggart and sat down again.

Blair threw a concerned look at his partner, who had left the Army after being betrayed by his superiors.

Brown was apparently thinking along the same lines. "Jim, you were still with the Rangers back then, weren't you?"

Jim sighed. "That's right. But I was only back from Peru a month before the mobilization started, and I didn't have my health back yet. And besides --"

"Besides?" Blair prompted softly.

"Besides . . . my tour was up, so I left."

Blair felt certain he had been about to say something else.

"We still playing, or we going to call it a night?" Taggart asked. "I'll have to deal again."

The five men looked at each other.

"Please," Blair said finally. "I didn't mean to ruin the whole evening. I'll talk to Rafe tomorrow, and apologize."

"Great, you can give him his money, then." Jim tossed the jingling bag down next to Blair's backpack.

Simon shook his head as he helped Taggart gather up the cards. "Sandburg, we all know the real reason you want to keep playing is so you can win the rest of our money off of us. I think maybe Rafe had the right idea, quitting while he was ahead."

Blair grinned tentatively. "Hey man, I gotta do something to pay for all those books. Unless you want to start paying me a salary --"

Simon held up a hand. "I don't want to hear it. Just try to have a little mercy when you're stacking the deck against us, okay?"

Blair laughed. "Man, I haven't even touched the cards! Jim," he appealed, "have you seen me cheating?"

The tension drained away into pleasant bickering as a new hand was dealt.

 

* * *

The next day, a few minutes after noon, Blair walked into the Major Crime bullpen and looked around uncertainly.

Rafe raised his head and saw the observer standing in the doorway. "Ellison's not here," he said. "He went out to lunch just a few minutes ago with Simon."

"That's okay," said Blair, moving to stand in front of Rafe's desk. "It wasn't him I came to see. Um . . ." Nervously, he shifted the backpack slung over his shoulder. "Look man, I want to apologize for last night. I was outta line."

Rafe straightened the papers on his desk. "Seems like I'm the one who flew off the handle."

"I never would have talked like that if I'd known it was such a personal issue for you, man. I was just bullshitting, you know? So, I was wondering if I could take you out to lunch, make it up to you?"

"Uh --" Rafe looked around his nearly empty desk and the quiet room for inspiration.

"Cyrus Gyros?" Blair offered. "I'll pay. Oh, yeah, by the way --" he dug the plastic bag from his pack and handed it over. "You came out pretty good last night."

Rafe looked blankly at the bag in his hand.

"So -- lunch?"

Rafe sighed. "Yeah, okay. I guess I am hungry."

Blair beamed as the detective picked up his jacket.

"Just bullshitting, huh?" Rafe asked while they waited in line at the Greek place across the street from the station.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. You know, devil's advocate and all that."

"Uh-huh. So, counselor, you really think the Gulf trouble is all about cultural imperialism?"

"Um . . . should we be talking about this? I came to make peace today."

Rafe grinned. "I won't blow up if you don't."

"Okay. Uh, today's special, please. Extra feta." Blair had to tiptoe to be seen over the high counter. He waited until both of them had their food and picked out a table. "Well, I'm not really sure what's behind it all, but I know we're not getting the whole story. I mean, the UN says they have this evidence of illegal weapons stockpiles, but we peons never really get a look at the evidence, do we?"

Rafe took a bite of his gyro, considering. "What about Gulf War Syndrome? Isn't that evidence?"

"Well, maybe, but how solid is it? I mean, there's all those conflicting studies and statistics and stuff. The syndrome wasn't all that common, was it?"

Rafe shrugged. "I had it."

"You did?"

"Yeah, most of the guys in my unit had some trouble or other. With me it was fatigue and skin problems for about a year after I got back."

"Wow, man. I had no idea."

"So you see where I'm coming from."

"Oh, yeah. Obviously, you have a totally different perspective on this. Seriously, man, if I'd known --"

"Never mind." Rafe chewed some more. "I was a prisoner, too. I got to see the Iraqis at work close hand."

Blair's eyes widened. "How --"

"They captured my whole unit while we were out on recon. We walked right into them. They held us for three days -- or maybe four, I lost track for a while."

"You were exchanged?"

"No." Rafe set the unfinished half sandwich on his plate. "I don't know how much you know about Iraqi treatment of prisoners . . ."

"Not a lot, really. The stories I've heard were conflicting."

"Yeah, well their behavior was conflicting. Sometimes they followed the Geneva Convention. Sometimes, especially if no one knew they had prisoners, they could get pretty, um, violent. In our case, they figured everyone would think we had walked into a minefield. No one had to know."

"Oh, man."

"One of our guys -- from an eight-man unit -- was killed when we were captured. Another one was wounded in the leg. Not too bad, but they wouldn't let us help him, wouldn't even give him first aid. By the time we were rescued, he was dead in his cell."

Blair covered his mouth with one hand.

"Then there was what they did to the rest of us. They kept us separated, but we could all hear the guys being dragged out for beatings. Supposedly, it was interrogation, but they asked the stupidest questions, like how we knew where they were. If we'd known they were there, we'd have sent a hell of a lot more than eight men!" Rafe's voice rose sharply, until he caught the stares of some of the other lunchgoers. He swallowed hard, regaining control. "Anyway, when we got pulled out, there were only five of us left, and we were pretty beat up."

"Oh, man, I'm sorry to hear that."

"Well." Rafe produced a brittle smile. "It's all in the past."

"Have you talked to anyone about this before?"

"Oh, yeah. Therapy up the wazoo when we got back. It got easier to deal with after a while, but now --"

"Now it's all starting up again."

"Yeah, and they're maybe going to send more kids out there to get killed."

Blair sighed. "I guess that's what bugs me the most. Whatever this is all about, I don't believe the reasons they give on TV, and I know Saddam isn't exactly being straight with his people, either. I just hate to think of so many people dying because of a bunch of lies."

"I guess all wars start because of lies, one way or another."

"Yeah, and they all end in blood."

The two men stared at each other across the table for a few minutes.

"Well. Thanks for lunch."

Blair looked down at their nearly full plates. "Sorry, man. Guess this wasn't such a great idea."

"No, I'm glad we talked. Really. I didn't mean to blow up at you last night."

"I understand, man. It's just ugly any way you look at it."

"Yeah. Come on, I gotta get back to work before Simon shows up."

 

* * *

Rafe was back at his desk doing paperwork as people gradually filtered back from lunch. Blair was perched in Jim's chair reading an article on the physiology of wine-tasting, when a green-uniformed stranger walked into the bullpen.

Rafe looked up briefly, then did a double-take. "Colonel?" He rose slowly to his feet.

The newcomer grinned broadly beneath a straw-colored buzz cut. "Lieutenant Rafe! Good to see you. How've you been doing?" His voice was full and hearty, booming through the bullpen and turning heads.

"Fine, Colonel, just fine. I had to leave the Reserves, but I got a promotion here at work, so it balances out."

"That's great. You sure look a lot better than the last time I saw you!"

"Yeah, I bet," Rafe chuckled. "It's funny, I was just telling --" He turned. "Blair! Hey, Sandburg, come over here. This is Colonel Blessing from Army Intelligence. It was his team that pulled us out after we were captured. Colonel, this is Blair Sandburg. He's a special consultant to the department."

The colonel engulfed Blair's hand in a meaty grip. "Oh, hey there, you must be the one who works with Ellison."

Blair blinked as he pulled his hand free. "You know Jim?"

"A little. I met him just before I headed off to help out in Kuwait and save this rascal here." The big man slapped Rafe on the back.

"So, that must have been right after he got back from Peru?"

"Right, right! Incredible story. The Army was sorry to lose that man, I can tell you."

"Yeah. Well, I guess he was a little burned out."

"Understandable. But how about you, Lieutenant?" The big man turned to Rafe.

"It's Detective now, sir. I'm doing much better. Listen, I never had a chance to thank you for all you did for my men --"

"Not at all, not at all! When we heard there were Americans being held in that compound, we were obliged to move in. It's what we're all about, eh?"

Blair wandered back to Jim's desk as the conversation degenerated into reminiscences. Something about the smiling man made him uncomfortable -- maybe the easy recognition of Blair's name and his connection with Jim. If the colonel only knew Jim 'a little,' why was he so well-acquainted with Jim's life?

Some subliminal awareness made Blair look up just as Jim and Simon stepped off the elevator. Simon was struggling to contain laughter. "So then she says, 'I don't know how uncomfortable fishnet stockings are over a long period -- I've never worn them for more than five minutes at a time!'" The tall captain stood back for Jim to enter the bullpen first. "And it falls into one of those silences in the conversation, and every man in the room turns and stares at her. I swear, Jim, I have never seen anyone turn so red so fast!"

Jim had been smiling and nodding at first, but something caught his attention as they approached the bullpen. He stopped in the doorway, oblivious to Simon's presence behind him. His gaze was fixed on the large blond figure standing by Rafe's desk.

"Jim, you all right?" Simon asked. "What's up?"

Colonel Blessing turned and smiled broadly at Jim.

"Excuse me, Simon." Jim looked deathly pale. "I have to --" Turning, he pushed past the captain and hurried down the hall.

Simon surveyed the area with a frown to see what had upset his detective. He gave the colonel a hard look before his gaze passed on to Blair. "Sandburg! Find out what's wrong with your partner."

"Sure, Simon." Blair slipped around the large men in his path and followed Jim's steps to the bathroom. He pushed open the door and froze as the unmistakable sound of vomiting floated from one of the stalls. Jim hadn't even taken the time to close the stall door, and Blair could see him hunched miserably over the toilet. After a moment's hesitation, he grabbed some paper towels and moistened them at the sink while Jim finished emptying his stomach.

Jim sat back on his heels, clutching his abdomen, and Blair held out the damp fabric. "Here, man. Wipe your face. Try to breathe slow and steady."

Jim nodded, accepting the towels but keeping his head turned away.

"It's okay, Jim, it happens to everybody. If you think you're done, why don't you come out and rinse with some water?"

The Sentinel staggered to his feet and lurched toward the sinks. Blair gave the toilet seat a quick wipe and flushed Jim's lunch away.

"You feeling any better, man?" he asked as Jim spat into the sink.

"Yeah," Jim gasped. "Fine."

"Do you know what set you off?"

The large hands whitened to match the ceramic they were gripping. "It was him," the Sentinel whispered.

"What? I can't hear you, man."

Jim straightened suddenly and backed to the far wall of the room, eyes fixed on the door.

Simon pushed into the room. "What the hell is going on, Ellison?"

Jim's shoulders relaxed minutely, but his face remained stony. "Sorry, sir. Upset stomach. Must have been something I ate."

"Jim, we ordered the same lunch. It tasted fine!"

"Maybe it was breakfast, then."

Alarmed by his partner's tension, Blair stepped forward. "Simon, I can take care of this. Just let me take him home --"

"Sandburg, this is a police station. We have work to do!"

"But it's been a quiet day, hasn't it? Let me work with Jim on this. It's probably, uh, an oversensitivity to some ingredient in the food that doesn't bother you at all. We'll need to go over everything he's had to eat and drink today. It could be --"

Simon held up a hand. "All right, Sandburg, I don't need the details." He studied his detective. "You look like hell, Jim. Take the rest of the day off and cooperate with Sandburg." He turned to go almost before he had finished speaking.

"Yes, sir," Jim rasped.

"Thanks, Simon!" Blair chirped, taking Jim's arm to guide him from the room.

Jim balked at the door, his breath quickening.

Without even asking, Blair stuck his head out and looked down the hall after Simon's retreating form. "He's gone."

"It's not Simon --"

"I know that, Jim. The coast is clear. It's just a few steps to the stairs, and we won't have to wait in front of the elevators."

Jim squeezed the younger man's arm gratefully as they slipped across the hall into the stairwell.

 

* * *

Blair didn't press Jim for answers on the way home. Driving seemed to calm the Sentinel, and gradually the tremor in his hands died down, but Blair noticed he spent as much time looking in the mirror as he did watching the road ahead.

"So what's up, man?" he demanded as the door to the loft closed behind them. "How come this guy had you so freaked out?"

Jim made a beeline for the refrigerator and got out two beers. He opened them, handed one to Blair, and slumped on the couch with his head down.

"C'mon, Jim, level with me. I need to know what's going on!"

Jim took a long pull from the bottle. "His name's Blessing. Army Intelligence."

"Yeah, I know, Rafe introduced us. So?"

"So, he was responsible for debriefing me after Peru."

Blair settled on the edge of the coffee table without taking his eyes from his partner. "Debriefing."

"Yeah. It was a longer process than usual. Blessing wasn't happy with my answers to some of the questions. He kept asking me why we flew in the wrong direction, and I kept insisting I was just following orders . . . I guess he suspected there was something screwy about the mission set-up."

"That was Colonel Oliver's fault, wasn't it?"

"That's what I kept telling them. I found out later that they believed me, at least to the extent that Oliver lost his job for the screw-up."

"But it wasn't a mistake; he sent you off-course deliberately to cover up his drug deals."

"I didn't know any of that at the time. And Blessing just kept asking me the same questions over and over."

"You think he had some other motive for pinning it on you?"

"Like what?"

"Like maybe he was in on Oliver's drug scam!"

"No. Blessing's a little overzealous, but I'm pretty sure he's clean."

"Was he . . . overzealous while he was questioning you?"

"Yes. No, not really. But it got to me. I was completely isolated --"

"Isolated how?"

"A nice room with pleasant furnishings, no window, and a door that locked from the outside."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. It was a big change from the jungle. I didn't deal with it too well."

"Is this normal procedure for a debriefing?"

Jim guzzled some more beer. "It was a little on the extreme side, but then I had been operating on my own for a year and a half. It's not like they were mistreating me or anything. At least, I don't think so . . ." His voice softened into uncertainty.

"You don't think so? Don't you know?"

"Well, my memory's a little fuzzy. Kinda like Peru, actually."

"Were your memories of Peru always this vague, or did that start after this -- debriefing?"

"It was a transition period, Sandburg, and it wasn't easy. I -- at one point, I thought they were drugging me. Later I decided I was just being paranoid. Now, looking back, I think what was happening was that my Sentinel senses were going off-line after I left the jungle, and that totally confused me. It was just a really unpleasant time for me, that's all."

"So, you're saying a combination of culture shock and losing your Sentinel abilities had you really upset, and now you associate all that with this colonel guy?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"I don't buy it, Jim. Being thrown into a different world or suspected of wrongdoing, even losing your senses -- I've seen all of that happen to you in the past few years, and it never messed you up like this! Not to the point of losing your lunch just because you got reminded of it!"

"I'm more experienced now, and I've got you backing me up. Don't read more into this than is already there, Chief." Jim emptied the last drops from his bottle.

Blair shook his head and left his perch on the table. "I don't like this, man. Something about this just feels wrong. That colonel gives me a bad feeling." He paced the living room.

About to toss his bottle in the recycle bin, Jim paused. "Do you know why he was in town?"

"Well, I heard him talking to Rafe -- something about a temporary assignment at Fort Brickman, and he stopped in to see his old war buddy."

"Fine. Then he should be gone by tomorrow, and everything will be back to normal."

"I sure hope you're right, man."

 

* * *

The next day, Blair rode in to the station with Jim. They had barely walked into Major Crime when Simon stuck his head through his office door and called Jim over. The captain's voice was a little more subdued than usual, his expression somber. Blair, following on Jim's heels, saw Colonel Blessing waiting inside Simon's office.

"Not you, Sandburg." Simon stopped Blair with a hand on his chest, but his face was sympathetic. "Wait outside."

Blair stared as the captain's door closed and the blinds were turned, then he defiantly sat on the floor right in front of the door, where he could hear everything that went on inside. Brown gave him a curious look, but Blair ignored it.

"Jim," came Simon's voice through the door, "Colonel Blessing here has some . . . news for you."

"Captain Ellison, good to see you again!" The colonel's booming tones were as warm as yesterday, so why did they send shivers up Blair's spine?

"It's Detective, sir." The parade rest was almost audible in Jim's voice.

"Actually, no, it's not. That's why I'm here. As you know, Captain Ellison, we never really had time to finish your debriefing in 1990 before I was called away to the Gulf."

"It seemed finished to me, sir."

"No, there were several questions still unanswered."

"Did you ever ask Colonel Oliver those questions? Apparently he knew a lot about the mission that he never told me."

"Ah, yes, Oliver. The recent revelations about him have actually cleared up a lot for us, but they brought up certain other matters, as well. I'd like you to come with me and answer some questions."

"Sir, any information I have about Peru is seven years out of date, and my memory isn't that clear anyway. I don't see how I can help you."

"Why don't you just let me be the judge of that? Now, I have orders here placing you under my command until such time as your debriefing is complete." Papers rustled.

"I can't be under your command, colonel, since I'm not in the Army anymore."

"Technically, you are. When you joined the Special Forces Unit, you signed a contract that stated you would submit to a full debriefing before being discharged. Since that was never completed, your discharge has been invalidated. Welcome back, Captain."

"You can't make me go with you, sir."

"That sounds very insubordinate, Captain, for a man who's technically been AWOL for the last seven years. Now, because of the bureaucratic confusion, we're willing to overlook that -- provided that you cooperate fully. If you refuse, you could be facing very serious charges."

Simon spoke up at last. "Jim, I've been checking this out ever since Colonel Blessing brought it to my attention yesterday. He's right. Your discharge never went through properly, and you are still under Army command. It's all legal and above-board, and the suits in D.C. are backing him up."

There was a long silence. "I see." Jim's voice sounded hoarse, uneven.

"Are you going to cooperate with us, Captain Ellison, or will you make this difficult?"

"What do you want?" It was a whisper Blair could hardly hear.

"You'll come with me to a facility in Olympia for further questioning."

"Now, wait a second," Simon objected, "You never told me about this. Why can't you just debrief him here? We can put our interview rooms at your disposal --"

"I'm afraid not, Captain Banks. The material we're dealing with is classified, and your department isn't rated for that level of information."

"Well, how long is this going to take? Ellison's my best detective -- I can't afford to have him out of town for long."

"Captain Ellison is no longer under your employ, sir. The debriefing shouldn't take more than a week or two. Whether Ellison decides to return to the police afterwards or remain with the Army will be up to him. Thank you for your assistance."

Blair heard footsteps heading his way and barely had time to scramble to his feet before the door opened. Blessing came out first, followed by Jim as closely as if a leash connected them. The broad shoulders were drooping, and the sky-blue eyes passed over Blair as if he weren't there at all.

"Jim. Jim!" Blair tried to catch his partner's arm, but his hand was shrugged away. Jim was across the room and gone before Blair could process what had happened.

He turned to Simon, standing in the doorway. "Simon, you can't let them do this! He's taking Jim away!"

"Sandburg, I can't stop him. It's all legal -- how can I object to that?"

"There has to be something you can do!"

"Like what, pit the Cascade PD against the US Army? I don't have a leg to stand on here!"

"Well, isn't there someone you could call, some strings you could pull?"

"Blair, I only know a few people in the military, and no one in D.C. Most of my contacts are on the City Council. We're a hell of a long way from the Oval Office out here."

"Well, call the people you do know! You have to do something! Please, Simon, this is Jim we're talking about here." Blair dropped his voice from an urgent plea to a secretive murmur. "You know what's going to happen if the government figures out what he is, what he can do. This guy debriefed Jim after Peru -- he must have some kind of clue about his Sentinel abilities. That's why he's coming back now!"

"I realize that, Sandburg, but I can't fight his kind of firepower."

"Si-mon!"

The tall captain closed his eyes in exasperation, then let out a sigh. "All right, I'll do what I can. Maybe the statute of limitations is up on that full debriefing clause, or something."

"Thanks, man. Jim really needs your help on this one."

"Just don't expect any miracles, Sandburg. This is going to take time. I can't stop Blessing from taking him out of town."

"Right. Okay." Blair took a cleansing breath and tried to focus his thoughts. "You do your best, Simon." He picked up his backpack and slung it on his shoulder.

"Sandburg -- where you going?"

"I got some errands to run, man. See you later."

 

* * *

Evening found Blair sitting at the kitchen table, composing one of the most difficult letters he'd ever written. And this was just the note to Simon -- what was going to happen when he started writing to Naomi? He looked up at the sound of a knock on the door, hastily finished his last sentence, then stuffed the note in an envelope and sealed it.

It was Rafe. "Sandburg? Can I come in?"

"Hey, man, I wasn't expecting to see you tonight. Sure, come on in." Blair unobtrusively dropped the envelope into his backpack. "Sorry I can't offer you anything -- we're outta snacks since poker night."

"No, that's okay. I came to ask you -- is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"Rumor around the department is that Jim's been drafted back into the Army. Colonel Blessing's supposedly taking him away for some sort of interrogation."

"Uh, yeah, that's basically the size of it." Blair absently began straightening up the kitchen; it was about as helpful as rearranging deck-chairs on the Titanic, but it gave him something to do. He hadn't eaten, so there were no dishes in the sink or pots to wash. He grabbed a cloth and wiped the table down instead.

Rafe collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs. "But why? It doesn't make any sense!"

"Apparently there was some sort of mess-up with his discharge papers."

"And it took them seven years to figure this out?"

"Hey, no one ever said the Army was efficient, man. The wheels of bureaucracy grind pretty slow, I guess."

"Come on, Sandburg, there has to be more to it than that!"

Blair stopped his compulsive cleaning and looked more closely at the detective. "You don't think Blessing's being straight with us? I thought the guy was a friend of yours."

"Well -- I spent a few weeks with him before I could rejoin my company, but I don't know him all that well. I was surprised he dropped by to see me . . . oh hell, he didn't, did he? He was just coming to pick up Ellison."

"I think so, yeah."

"Geeze." Rafe ran a hand through his hair, causing a lock to tumble over his forehead. "So what does he want with him?"

"I guess it's something to do with Peru."

"After seven years? No way. Listen, does this have anything to do with Jim being . . . special?"

Blair froze. "I don't know what you mean, man."

"Oh, come on. He has the best record in the department's history. He has an anthropologist for his partner. And anybody who works with him can see he knows things there's no way he should know. Henri and I thought he might be -- you know -- psychic."

Blair considered a while before replying. "He's not psychic. But he's definitely special."

"And the government wants him for that."

"I hope not. But I can't think what else it would be." Blair sighed. "Rafe, you haven't -- talked with anyone outside the department about this, have you?"

"Hell, I haven't talked with anyone but Henri about it! It doesn't take much to figure the spooks might be after him if it got out, especially after he was kidnapped last year, and that Ebola-terrorist thing the year before. We keep quiet about it, but we're obviously not the only ones who know something's going on."

"Great. Just great." Blair tossed the damp cloth in the sink and stared absently at nothing. "So, how much does Blessing know? And how long will it take him to find out everything?"

"Sandburg, you're not planning some wild rescue scheme, are you?"

Blair gave a start as someone knocked on the door. He grinned crookedly at Rafe. "What'd you do, tell Brown to come and back you up if you weren't out within ten minutes?" Then he did what Jim had been adjuring him for years never to do; he opened the door without looking through the peephole first.

Colonel Blessing stood in the hallway, with two meaty Army types behind him.

Blair knew a moment of pure panic before a strange calm descended over him. "Colonel Blessing, come in," he said politely, stepping back from the door. "So, what brings you here? I hope Jim's doing all right now that he's back in the Army again."

Rafe stood stiffly by the kitchen table, watching as the colonel and his troops invaded the loft.

"Captain Ellison is adapting quite well to the sudden change in his circumstances." Blessing's voice sounded much colder now than it had at the station. "He's a remarkable man."

"Yes, I know. Um, is there something I can help you with?"

The colonel glanced at Rafe. "Actually, there is. I understand you have considerable experience working with Captain Ellison in his police capacity. We thought you might be able to give us some assistance in -- communicating with him during the debriefing."

They know I'm his Guide, Blair realized. He wanted to run away, but he knew he had no chance of escaping. At least if he played along, they would take him to Jim. "Uh, sure, I'd be glad to help Jim, any way I can. Will you need me to come to Olympia with you?"

The colonel blinked, clearly surprised at such easy capitulation. "Er, yes, that would be best. This may take several days."

Blair nodded. "Okay. In that case, I'll need to pack a few things and arrange for someone to cover my classes while I'm gone. If you'll just give me a moment . . ." He went into his room, leaving the doors open behind him, and absently stuffed some clothes into a duffel. His mind was racing so fast that his movements seemed strangely slowed.

Behind him, he heard the glass door close. "Are you crazy?" hissed Rafe. "You can't go with him!"

"I don't think I have a lot of choice," Blair muttered as he looked for a pair of matching socks.

"Sandburg, you can't trust this guy!"

"I know that, Rafe."

"Look, I didn't tell you everything about Iraq. I think the colonel --"

Knuckles rapped on the glass. "Are you all right in there, Mr. Sandburg?"

"Yes, fine," Blair called. "I just have to make a couple of phone calls." He pushed Rafe firmly out of the bedroom before him.

Colonel Blessing glanced at his watch. "Perhaps Lieutenant -- I mean, Detective Rafe could make arrangements for you. We are a little pressed for time."

Inspiration struck Blair. "Okay. Sure, I understand. Rafe, could you please call the Anthro department for me on Monday and tell them I'll need someone to cover my classes for the week." He collected his backpack from its spot near the door, casually pulling out the brown paper bag which held the fruits of his errands this afternoon. He tucked the envelope in with the rest. "And give this to Dan Matson. Tell him I'll see him as soon as I get back to town."

Confusion flickered in Rafe's eyes for a moment, then he accepted the bag. "I'll do that. Blair, are you sure you're doing the right thing?"

Blair forced mouth to curl upwards. "I don't want to cause any trouble for Jim. And I'm sure I can help him best by cooperating with Colonel Blessing. Jim figured the same thing, that's why he went along without a fuss."

"That's very perceptive of you, Mr. Sandburg." The colonel dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "My men can take your bags for you."

Blair handed the duffel to one of the hefties and his backpack to the other. "I'll see you in a few days, Rafe," he said nervously as he was herded towards the door. "Lock up when you leave, okay?"

* * *

Blessing wasted no time with congeniality once they were out of the loft. In the slow-moving elevator Blair was pushed up against the wall and searched thoroughly enough to make him very uncomfortable. His hands were pulled back and handcuffs snapped around his wrists; the contents of his pockets were handed over to the colonel.

"It's not here," said Blessing after he had dug through the duffel and the backpack. "Where's the key, professor?" His tone made the unearned title into an insult.

"You got all my keys right there, man," said Blair unsteadily.

"Not these. The safety deposit key!"

Blair swallowed. "What do you mean?"

Blessing grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around, and slammed him back against the wall. "The key to the safety deposit box where you put all your research notebooks three hours ago," he enunciated slowly.

"Oh. That key."

"Where is it?" Blessing backhanded the young anthropologist, knocking his head backward.

"I put it in the mail."

"Dammit!" The colonel released Blair briefly, then came back and grabbed his shirt. "Where did you send it? Who did you mail it to? Tell me, you little shit!"

Blair licked his lips; the inside had been cut against his teeth when he was hit. "I sent it to Simon Banks."

"Sir, we didn't see him stop at a mail box or post office this afternoon," one of the heavies put in suddenly.

"There was a mailbox in the bank," Blair said quickly.

The colonel gave Blair a speculative look as the elevator groaned to a stop. "He's lying," the big man concluded. "Probably. Parry, turn over the apartment and see if it's there."

Blair groaned soundlessly at the thought of the loft getting torn up again. He just hoped Jim would have a chance to chew him out for it.

The colonel pushed Blair out of the elevator with a heavy hand, then paused. "Wait! Lieutenant -- that is, Detective Rafe. The man who was in the apartment. Sandburg may have given the key to him. Follow him, and get it from him. Don't kill him if you can avoid it, but don't let him recognize you. If the key's not in the apartment, and not on Rafe, make sure you get to Banks' mail before he does. At home and at work."

Parry looked more than a little apprehensive at this command.

"When you have the key, get the contents of the box and bring them to me at Romeo Station."

"Romeo, sir? Not --"

"Yes, Romeo!"

Parry saluted and headed for the stairs. Blessing and Heavy Number Two conducted Blair out of the apartment and across the street, shoving him into the rear of a black sedan.

Blessing craned his head around from the passenger seat as they started moving. "Now, you're not going to try to escape, are you?" he asked in the same friendly tones he had used at the station the previous day.

Blair glared at him. "I told you I would cooperate. I'm here for Jim's sake. I'm not going to do anything that would make you treat him worse."

"Excellent. I'm glad to see you understand the situation so well, professor."

"Since that's all cleared up, can I at least have my hands in front of me? How far are we driving, anyway?"

"Shut up and suffer." Blessing turned to face front again.

* * *

The drive was not long, but Blair was appalled when he saw where they had arrived. "We're taking a train? What's wrong with flying to Olympia?"

"Actually, I thought we would go a little farther," said Blessing. "Leaving the state will make it harder for your friend Banks to pull strings."

Blair grimaced. "So, what, we're talking Portland?"

No response.

"Frisco? Baja? Are you sure you wouldn't rather take a plane?"

The colonel pulled Blair out of the car with unexpected roughness. "Ellison may be amused by your chatter," he growled. "I am not. Keep your speculations to yourself."

Blair swallowed hard at the look in the big man's pale eyes.

They got on the front of the train, the first car behind the locomotive. Blessing started checking doors while Heavy Two pushed Blair down the narrow passageway. The car, as Blair had guessed, was quite empty. At a compartment midway down the car, Heavy Two knocked, and the door was opened. Two more muscular types sat on one side of the compartment. Jim Ellison, dressed in Army green, was apparently dozing on the opposite side.

Heavy Two pushed Blair down next to Jim. He undid the cuff from Blair's left hand, threaded the chain under the armrest, and fastened it to Jim's lax wrist.

"What is this, SOP?" Blair demanded. "They write all this stuff in the Tough Guy manual?" He bit his lip as Blessing entered the compartment.

"All clear," said the colonel. "You have any trouble?"

The guards shook their heads. "Sleeping like a baby, sir," said one.

Blair turned his attention to his partner. Jim's head lolled back against the wall, and a thin line of saliva trickled from the corner of his mouth. "What did you give him?" Blair demanded, suddenly frightened.

"Just a little something to keep him quiet," the colonel replied.

"He has weird drug reactions! You could kill him!" Blair tried to feel for Jim's pulse, but his right hand was trapped down by the armrest. He twisted around and pressed his left hand to Jim's throat. "His pulse is slow . . . I can hardly feel it! What did you give him?"

"Nothing that will harm him."

"You don't know that, man! Look, no more drugs. If he's valuable to you, in any way -- no more drugs!"

"Actually," said the colonel slowly, "I was aware of Ellison's unusual drug reactions. But I was under the impression that it took the form of resistance to being drugged. I suspect you're trying to fool me into using lower doses on him so he'll have a chance to escape."

Blair took a deep breath. "Jim has anomalous reactions. That means sometimes he's less affected than normal, and sometimes more. You can't predict it. Cold medicine just about knocks him on his ass! You gotta be careful with this stuff, or you're going to kill him."

Blessing stared at Blair for nearly a minute, but the younger man was not intimidated.

"Look, you brought me here as an expert. You should at least listen to what I know!"

Blessing turned to one of the two guards that had been in the compartment when they arrived. "Skip the second dose, Turner. We'll see how long it takes him to come out of it."

Blair breathed a sigh of relief.

"And him, sir?" asked Turner.

Blessing considered. "Leave him awake, for now. He won't try to escape without his partner, even if he could."

The train jolted into movement, and within a few minutes they were moving smoothly out of Cascade. Blessing discussed guard schedules with his men for a while, then he and two of the heavies left the compartment, leaving Turner to watch the captives.

Blair tried to figure out just how far under Jim was. His reflexes were sluggish, his pupils enormous and not very reactive to light. After shaking him and patting his cheek repeatedly, Blair managed to elicit a groan from his partner.

"Jim? Come on, buddy, can you wake up for me? Just for a second, that's it."

"Sanbur?" Jim's eyes opened briefly and squeezed shut again at once.

"Yeah, Jim. It's me. How do you feel?"

"Na spose a be'ere."

It took Blair a moment to decipher that. "Well, I am here, Jim, so we're going to have to live with it."

"Hmmm . . . gla yerere."

"I'm glad too."

"Got sleep na. You washout."

"Okay, Jim. You sleep, I'll watch." Blair sat back, relieved that Jim was at least coherent, if extremely groggy. He looked at Turner for a while, and Turner looked back expressionlessly.

"So!" Blair said brightly. "Got anything to read?"

* * *

After about an hour and a few brief stops, Blessing came back to the compartment. He studied Jim and Blair -- respectively snoring and gazing in frustration at the ceiling -- and gave Turner a nod. "Go get something to eat, then get some rest two compartments down. Morrison will take the graveyard shift."

Turner saluted and slipped out of the small room.

Bored out of his skull, Blair watched the colonel settle himself for a spell of guard duty. "What are you going to do with us -- with Jim?"

Blessing considered. "What do you think I should do with him?"

"Let him go," Blair answered promptly.

The colonel smiled shark-like. "Then what do you think I will do with him?"

Blair wondered what to say. It depended on how much Blessing already knew about Jim's abilities. He didn't want to give anything away. Then again, if the colonel had his way, soon the Army would know everything about James Ellison. Was there any point in hiding? "I think you want to make him into some sort of super-soldier. It's what your type would consider the height of evolution."

"And you believe Ellison represents this height of evolution?"

"No comment."

The colonel laughed. "I've read your papers -- some of them, anyway. Lee Brackett had some fascinating insights into them. You call Ellison a throwback."

Blair shrugged. "So maybe humanity has passed its prime."

"I know many who would agree with you. But to answer your question . . . actually, I just want Ellison to do what he does best. To save lives, only on a rather larger scale than the city of Cascade. Imagine having a -- Sentinel, is it? -- with the UN inspection teams in Iraq. Saddam could put all the restrictions he wants on movement of teams, but Ellison would know if the Iraqis were lying, would be able to detect what they were trying to cover up. He could answer this vexed question once and for all, and possibly prevent a war. Now surely this is a use of Ellison's abilities that you would approve?"

"Did you ever think of asking for Jim's help?"

"Ellison has become entrenched in civilian life. We thought he might need a little encouragement."

"So you drafted him?"

The colonel chuckled. "Ellison was never drafted. He entered the Army quite voluntarily. He simply wasn't discharged when he thought he was."

"Semantics, man. You effectively kidnapped him, and now you have him drugged. This doesn't sound like gentle persuasion to me. What are you going to do, brainwash him to be your anthrax-sniffer?"

"We do anticipate that it may take a while to bring Captain Ellison around to our point of view. But what about you, Mr. Sandburg?"

"Huh?"

"Would you cooperate in such an endeavor? Would you add your arguments to persuade Ellison to help us? Brackett seems to think that you are essential for Ellison to operate at peak efficiency."

"I think Jim needs to make his own choice, man."

"And you would back him up? No matter what he decides?"

"All the way. But I'll tell you something else -- I'm not buying your story. If you were doing something you thought Jim would agree to, you would have at least approached him about it first. Nuh-uh. You might start him off looking for illegal weapons in Iraq, but once you had a hold on him, once you had him programmed to obey, he'd become your own personal spy!"

Colonel Blessing laughed loudly, causing Jim's snores to break off. "I thought academics were supposed to be naive." He turned his head at a knock on the door. "That will be Morrison. It's been delightful chatting with you, professor."

"I thought you hated the sound of my voice," Blair muttered under his breath.

Morrison turned out to be Heavy Number Two from the loft. He settled into the chair and glared balefully at Blair. The young anthropologist sighed and returned to his examination of the ceiling.

* * *

The train reached Olympia shortly after midnight, according to Blair's watch, which had kindly been left to him by the colonel. All his other assets, including his duffel and backpack and the contents of his pockets -- even his glasses -- had been left in the black sedan parked at the train station in Cascade. He wondered if they would be picked up by some Army underling -- good old Parry, maybe -- or abandoned to tempt car thieves.

The stop in Olympia lasted ten minutes -- the same as the stop in Tacoma, and half as long as the stop in Seattle. Blair knew this would be the last major stop before Portland, and he was alert for any opportunity that might present itself. Morrison, however, was also alert. Giving up, Blair wriggled around to find a comfortable position on the hard seat. He ended up with his head tilted onto Jim's shoulder.

"Doesn't that bother you?"

Blair looked up, surprised that the statue had spoken. "What?"

"Doesn't the snoring bother you?" Morrison repeated.

"No. He doesn't normally snore, so I know it has to be the drugs. And anyway, as long as he's making noise, I know he's breathing." Blair lowered his head once more and closed his eyes.

He dozed in fits, waking every few minutes as some new discomfort made itself felt or a bump in the track jarred his head from its resting spot. He thought a couple of hours had passed when he realized that Morrison was fidgeting in an un-guardlike way. The man crossed his legs, then uncrossed them right away. He shifted right and left in his seat. Through veiled lashes, Blair saw that he was glancing at his watch, then at the door, then at his watch again.

Blair concentrated on giving the impression of sound sleep. He hoped Morrison didn't have enhanced hearing, because he could feel his heart beating faster with each nervous shift the man made. He wished he dared look at his own watch.

The guard got up suddenly and began to pace. Blair allowed himself a brief reaction to the disturbance, then returned to his pretense of sleep. Morrison opened the door of the compartment, and Blair held his breath. But apparently the man was just looking out into the corridor. Was he expecting someone to relieve him? Checking if the coast was clear for him to sneak out to the john?

More pacing and two more checks of the corridor later, Morrison muttered a curse and stepped right out.

Blair heaved a quick sigh and went into action. "Jim, man, you got anything in your pockets?" He groped his partner awkwardly. "No, I didn't think so. Look, it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to wake up now."

Jim stopped snoring and made an interrogative grunt.

Blair looked desperately around the compartment for anything useful within reach, but there was nothing. The only idea he had was the one that had come to him hours before, and he didn't like it. "Well, it's not going to get any easier if I sit around thinking about it," he told himself.

He slipped off the seat and knelt on the floor with his arm twisted across his body by the cuffs. "Come on Jim, I need you to move your arm for me -- that's right." He threaded the Sentinel's hand underneath the armrest to give his own cuffed hand more freedom of movement. He took several deep breaths for relaxation, trying to find the calm place inside where nothing could hurt him. Then he drove his hand down hard, sideways, onto the seat.

"Ow! Shit, that hurt! Oh man, oh god that hurts. Ow ow ow." Blair opened watering eyes to see his hand looking very misshapen indeed. "Oh man. Ouch."

"Blair?" Jim said, suddenly quite coherent.

"It's okay, man, I just did something incredibly stupid that might not even help us. Ow."

Jim looked around. "Where are we?"

"On a train south of Olympia. Heading to Portland, I think. Okay, okay, Blair, just sit down and relax."

"Wha happen?" Jim was beginning to slur again.

"I'll explain it all in a moment. Right now I have to indulge in some more self-abuse. Not in the Victorian sense. Damn, I wish it was in the Victorian sense." Blair tentatively touched his throbbing right hand with his left. "Oh shit. This is gonna hurt even more. Well, it won't feel any better if I wait for it to swell up." Panting with the pain, he forced his loose right thumb in against the palm and began to squeeze the cuff over it. "Ow ow ow. Oh man. Come on Blair, it's moving. Just a little more . . ."

He bent down and licked around the hand. Even the pressure of his tongue hurt, but he squeezed harder and tried pushing off the cuff again. It came free suddenly, and Blair's hand flew back to hit him in the chest. Dark whorls swarmed in front of his eyes. "No, don't pass out," he muttered.

"Blair? You're hurt." Jim was holding his shoulders, helping him sit upright.

"Yeah, hurts like hell. But at least it wasn't for nothing. We're out of the cuffs. Now if we can just figure out a way off this damn train. Jim, can you hear if there's anyone coming?"

Jim's eyes glazed over a little.

"Don't go to sleep on me man! I can't handle it right now."

"People sleeping not far away. Somebody walking, Army boots -- yes, coming this way."

"Okay, you sit there man and try to look like you're asleep without falling asleep, you get me? We have to knock this guy out somehow, and I only have one hand to work with."

Jim allowed himself to be positioned as if he were still asleep, and Blair sat beside him with his right hand tucked out of sight. He realized that he was sitting stiffly, unnaturally, and he was obviously awake. But there was no way he could feign sleep with his hand screaming at him the way it was.

Morrison came in and looked at them suspiciously. Jim grunted and began to snore again, and Blair's heart sank. Then, just as Morrison had half-lowered himself into the opposite seat, Jim stood up smoothly and kicked the man in the gut. When the guard doubled over, Jim brought both fists down on the back of his neck, plucking the gun from his hand before it was fully drawn. Morrison slumped to the floor.

Blair blinked. "Way to go, Jim! Does he have keys to the handcuffs?"

Jim started to dig through the unconscious man's pockets, then lurched unsteadily against the wall. He curled his arms up over his head.

Blair went to his knees beside his partner. "Jim? Jim, man, you all right?"

"Bright," Jim gasped. "Too bright, and noisy. All . . . whirling around . . ."

"It's the drugs, man. They're throwing your senses out of whack. Just try to relax, and breathe deeply. You know the drill."

"Hurts." Jim was nearly whimpering now.

"I know. You gotta breathe, Jim. Imagine turning down the dial. Pick one sense -- um, hearing -- and concentrate on that. Filter out the sound of the train, you don't need to hear that. Is it getting quieter?"

Jim's panting breaths gradually slowed. "Yeh. Yeah, quieter."

"Good, that's good. Now vision. Open your eyes, and slowly move your arms away from your face. Turn it down. You can cope, just take it slowly."

Jim uncovered his head, squinting.

"That's right. No, don't look up at the lights! Look in the corner there, where it's dark, and let your eyes adapt naturally. Just keeping breathing deep and slow."

As the quivering tension flowed out of the Sentinel, Blair worked his left hand into Morrison's pockets. For simplicity's sake, he pulled everything out and sorted through the pile on the floor.

"Yes! I knew it," he crowed triumphantly. "Jim, give me your arm. No, the other one, with the cuffs on it." He struggled with the key for a minute, then gave up. "You're gonna have to do this yourself, man, I'm a little clumsy with just my left hand."

Jim took the key and expertly twisted it in the cuff, freeing his wrist. "What's wrong with your right hand?"

"It's, uh, broken, I think. Put the cuffs on Morrison, now."

Jim ignored the command. "Let me see."

"No, it can wait 'til later. Just get Morrison out of the way, and we can figure out how to get off this damn train!"

Jim captured the wrist Blair was holding pressed against his chest, and studied the hand intently. He ran his fingers lightly over the base of the limp thumb.

"Ow, Jim, that hurts!"

"Shh. It's not broken, just dislocated."

"Oh. Great, that's real nice to know. Can we get down to business now?"

Jim raised his eyes. "Do you trust me?"

"Of course I tru-- AAAH! Shit, what'd you do that for? Owwww!" Blair pulled his hand free.

"I just put the thumb back into place. Can you move it now?"

Blair looked at his hand. It was the right shape, if a little redder than usual. He wiggled the thumb a few millimeters. "It still hurts like hell."

Jim nodded. "It'll probably swell up pretty bad. But the sooner the joint is set, the faster it'll heal."

"Thanks. I think."

Jim picked up the cuffs and snapped them on Morrison, then dragged the unconscious man into a corner.

"How you feeling, Jim?"

"Well, everything's still a little -- fuzzy, sort of. And too sharp at the same time. My control is shit, and my head is killing me."

"That must have been some powerful stuff they hit you with. You know what it was?"

The Sentinel shook his head, then winced. "It was an injection. I didn't see the bottle."

"At least you're awake now. We have to get off this train."

"Any suggestions, Einstein?"

Blair sighed. "The only thing I can think of is to jump."

Jim gaped at him, then glanced out the window. "No way. Too fast."

"We can't pull the emergency stop cord, because then Blessing will know exactly where we got off. If we jump, we get away without him knowing."

"Chief, this train is doing over seventy!"

"Yeah, but we're already a couple hours south of Olympia. Think about it, man, we've been this way before!"

Jim frowned. "The mountains," he realized.

"Yeah, then we'll slow down. I mean, why do you think this train is so short?"

"Because nobody rides passenger trains anymore?"

"Funny, man. We just gotta wait a little while for the first good incline, then we book it out of the window."

"And what if his relief comes along in the meantime?" Jim gestured at Morrison.

Blair grimaced. "Well, that's the weak part of the plan. 'Cause I think his relief is already late."

"Wonderful," Jim sighed.

"But you're on your feet, and we have Morrison's gun -- you can take him out."

"Why not take them all out while we're at it, Chief? They're sleeping just a few compartments away."

"We'd still have to get off the train before Portland. It isn't just Blessing -- the whole Army's going to be looking for us. We'll be on the run, and the more lead time we can get the better." Blair watched his partner in concern. "Maybe those drugs are affecting you more than you think. I mean, I don't usually have to explain the basic strategy stuff to you."

Jim held up a finger, his head tilted intently. Blair recognized from the angle of his head and the slightly open mouth that Jim was listening for something. The open-mouth business always made Jim look a little stupid, but Blair reasoned that it was providing the sound another passage to Jim's sinus cavities. If it helped him hear better, the man could afford to seem dull-witted. Blair just hoped it was Jim's listening-mode right now, and not a reflection of the drug's effects.

Jim snatched up Morrison's gun and moved cat-like to the door. A second later, there was a knock. Jim pulled open the door with his gun hand and threw a pile-driver punch with the other. Blair heard a gasp and a thud, then Jim was towing another of Blessing's heavies into the compartment by the heels.

Blair sighed in relief. "Seems to me your senses are doing pretty good," he offered.

Jim patted the other man's pockets. "Give me a hand here, Chief. I want to get these two cuffed together against the seat so they can't get out and alert Blessing."

With some grunting and heaving, they got both of the big soldiers propped up against the seats with their hands cuffed together under the armrest in familiar fashion. Jim tightened the cuffs down cruelly, not wanting them to try the same trick Blair had.

Just as they finished their task, the incessant clacking of the track began to change. "Jim! We're slowing down."

Jim opened the window and studied the trees rushing past outside. "Still doing about fifty, Chief."

"When it gets below forty, I think we should go for it."

"You sure about this?"

"No. But come on, man, it can't be worse than jumping out of a plane into the jungle -- or off a cliff into white water."

"All right," Jim said slowly, "but I'll go first."

"You always go first," Blair grumbled.

As the incline steepened, Jim pushed the window open all the way. He hoisted himself up and slipped his legs and body through the narrow opening, then neatly twisted to catch the sill with his hands. Clinging to the outside of the train, he looked down.

"Okay," he called out above the roar of the wind and the clacking of the wheels. "There's a gravel slope going down, about five feet out from the track. You need to push yourself away from the train when you jump. Try to stay relaxed, don't stiffen up. When you hit the slope, just let yourself roll naturally. Okay?"

Blair nodded, his mouth suddenly dry. "I'll be right behind you, man."

"All right, see you in a few." Jim pulled himself up close to the window, then gave a kick and disappeared into the blackness.

"Right behind you," Blair muttered to himself. "How the hell am I supposed to get out that window?"

There was no chance he was going to do it the way Jim had. He had to go through backwards and belly-down if he wanted to catch the sill in time. But first he had to lift himself up there. After balancing on the seat, struggling and straining and hurting his swollen thumb, he finally got one leg and then the other out the window. He flopped over, almost getting his hips caught in the narrow space, and lowered himself out the rest of the way.

The wind was tremendous, bodily pushing him back and inward towards the train. He would have to push hard to get well away from the tracks. He closed his eyes, counted to three, and kicked hard as if propelling himself away from the side of a pool.

There was a moment of terrifying vertigo and even stronger wind, then he hit the ground much harder than he was expecting. He curled into a loose ball and tried to roll, but even in the midst of his disorientation it seemed he was rolling the wrong way. He opened his eyes and saw the train flashing past just a few feet away. The direction of the slope had changed -- he was rolling down towards the train instead of away from it!

Instantly he threw out his arms and legs to stop the roll, and a few painful jolts later remembered that Jim had warned him not to do that. It stopped his motion, but he was already much too close to the track. Sooty gravel and dust spat in his face from under the screaming wheels.

For a short train, it certainly took a long time to pass. It seemed like hours that Blair lay there with his arms over his head. But at last the deafening clatter faded down the tracks, and the wind died.

Blair lifted his head tentatively and groaned. Every muscle and joint hurt, especially his back, hips and head. Also his arms and legs. Basically everything. He wiggled fingers and toes and decided that he wasn't broken, only sprained. Gingerly, he climbed to his feet and brushed the clinging pebbles from his legs.

The sky was cloudy, with no moon visible. Blair could barely see the tracks, now that the lights of the train had faded into the distance. There was nothing but a path of somewhat lighter grey through a dark grey world. Blair sighed and started walking back along the tracks, stumbling a lot at first until he got the hang of walking in a straight line while mostly blind.

Slowly his eyes adapted to the darkness and he could make out more. There wasn't much to see: tree-covered hills on either side and a curving train track in the middle. Insects and small animals chirped and rustled in the forest. Although he was accustomed to wilderness at night, Blair had never felt quite so alone before. He found himself stopping frequently and holding his breath to listen for any approaching danger.

The fifth time he stopped, he heard something. Some large, heavy animal, crunching over the gravel directly towards him. He nearly panicked before he recognized the pattern of bipedal footsteps.

"Jim?" His voice was barely a whisper, reluctant to disturb the night. "That you?"

"Chief! You all right?" Jim had no such hesitation; he bellowed his concern and picked up speed, arriving at Blair's side in a shower of gravel. "How did you get so far up the track?"

"I, uh, had a little trouble getting through the window."

"That's a nasty cut on your head there."

"Huh?" Blair raised a hand to his face, suddenly realizing what that wet trickly feeling had been about.

"Let me see." Jim took Blair's chin and tilted his head to some light that only a Sentinel could see by. "It doesn't look too bad, but I don't have anything to clean it with." He patted the fatigues he was wearing.

"I've got two shirts on. The one underneath should still be clean." Blair pulled the hem out of his pants, and Jim tore off a strip to wipe the cut with.

"Yeah, it's not too deep. Almost stopped bleeding by now. You think you can walk?"

"That's what I've been doing, man. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Is your head still fuzzy?"

"No. Still aching, but my senses are clear. A little pain always seems to help me throw off drugs better."

"That's incredible, man! It's like the pain flushes out your neuro- receptors and resets them to normal. Or maybe it's the endorphins --"

"That's great, Chief. Why don't you tell me about it while we walk?"

"Sure. Uh -- where we going?"

"For starters, I think we should get away from the tracks." Jim turned his head, scanning the trees around them. "The interstate's a couple miles to the west --" He pointed.

"Great! We can hitch a ride."

"No, not great. Too public. Too obvious. I think we should go northeast. That's the nearest town over there, about twelve miles away."

Blair frowned. "How can you tell?"

"I can see the streetlights reflected off the clouds. Come on, let's go." Jim led the way down the steep slope which once more descended away from the tracks.

"Whoa, hang on a second, man."

"What is it?" Jim's disembodied voice floated up from below.

"I can walk, but I can hardly see a damn thing. If we go in the woods, I'm gonna be totally blind."

Footsteps crunched back up the slope. "Okay, Ray Charles, grab the back of my shirt. Watch your step on the hill, here."

"How'm I supposed to watch what I can't see?" Blair grumbled, but he followed his partner trustingly.

The next few hours were a nightmare for Blair of stumbling over uneven ground. Jim picked the easiest path he could, but still there were roots and fallen branches to trip Blair, hollows and gullies to stagger him, two barbed wire fences they had to cross, and once a stream to wade. Inevitably it began to rain, and every shiver just reminded his muscles of how much they were hurting.

Around four in the morning -- according to Jim's reading of Blair's watch -- a thin sliver of moon rose up in the east. It wasn't enough to illuminate the ground ahead of Blair, but it shed enough light that he could follow Jim without clinging to his shirt. That was a relief in itself, for his left hand and arm had been cramping, and there was no way he could keep a decent grip with his right.

They reached the town of Mary Corner at five thirty. By now the sky had lightened enough that Blair could see his own watch. They paused for a rest on the outskirts of the town, and Blair lowered himself to sit on a stump while Jim scanned the area.

"So what do we do now, man? Call Simon?"

Jim shook his head. "I don't want to put him in that kind of a bind, Chief. He'd be legally required to hand us back over to Blessing, and if he didn't he could lose his job." He turned with a wry smile. "I don't suppose you have any ideas?"

"Actually, I do. But we have to get back to Cascade first. All my stuff is there."

"How we supposed to get back, then, Sherlock?"

"Hitchhike?"

"No way. Like I said, the highway's too public. While we're standing there with our thumbs out, Blessing will have men out looking for us."

"Steal a car, then."

"Sandburg!"

"What? Look, this is an emergency, man. We're already set against the law. Better we should do something illegal ourselves than force someone else to aid and abet us and maybe get into trouble. Anyway, you know if we steal a car and then abandon it in Cascade, it'll be found within a day and returned to the owner. We could even leave it with a full tank."

"You have any money on you?"

"Uh, no. That's why we have to get back to Cascade."

"Chief, if we go withdrawing money from the bank, they're going to find us."

"Trust me, man. I have a plan. You just figure out how to get us home."

Jim grumbled and started leading them down the road into the small town, trusting Blair to follow. "What the hell do you know about stealing cars, anyway?"

"Well, I know that getting them started isn't the hard part. It's the steering lock that's a problem. We won't get far going in a straight line."

"Unless we steal a Hum-V," Jim suggested humorously.

"No, the thing to do is go for the old models. Like your truck, man. That doesn't have a steering lock. Should be plenty of old pickups out in these parts."

"Or we could just count on the trusting nature of the people in rural areas who leave their spare keys in the visor," said Jim.

"Huh?" Blair followed his partner's gaze to an unremarkable station wagon parked at the side of the road. "All right, man, let's go for it!"

"Sandburg, no!" Jim caught his partner's arm. "Let get into town first, check out our other options."

"What other options? Jim, we are on the run here! It's almost dawn. Pretty soon everybody will be awake and then we'll have witnesses --"

"Witnesses to what?"

"Whatever we decide to do," Blair said weakly.

Jim paused as they turned a corner, squinting down the road. "I know what we're going to do."

Blair tried to follow the Sentinel's gaze. "Why do I have the feeling I'm not going to like this?"

"See that camping trailer?"

"Where?"

"Parked in the gas station lot."

"Okay, I see it. So what?"

"They're going to Cascade."

"How do you know that, man?"

"It's Monday, right? Weekend's over, they're heading home."

"But how do you know they come from Cascade?"

"I recognize the dealership the trailer came from."

"But --"

"And the license plate says Rainier County."

"Wait a second, man, what if they're on a two-week driving tour or something?"

"If they turn the wrong way on the interstate, we can always jump off like we did with the train. Come on, Sandburg."

* * *

An hour later, with rain stinging his face and his left hand gone numb where it clung to the railing, Blair shouted to his partner on the other side of the trailer roof. "Tell me again why we couldn't hide inside the trailer?"

"One of them might have been planning to ride in there," Jim yelled back.

"And we didn't just ask for a ride because . . .?"

"No witnesses!"

"No witnesses," Blair muttered to himself. "Right." Every trucker that drove by had been gesticulating at the driver of the camper. At least the ordinary cars were too low down to see the two stowaways. Blair tried to adjust his position a little, maybe take some of the strain off his hand, but suddenly he found himself slipping backward in the gale that whipped over the top of the trailer.

Instantly, a steel-hard grip clamped over his wrist, pulling him forward until he could grab the railing again. Blair nodded gratefully at his partner and tucked his face down out of the rain.

Jim's hand had been warm on Blair's wrist. How the hell did he manage that? The Sentinel was wearing nothing but the Army fatigues Blessing had put him in. At least Blair had a jacket and two shirts, yet he was freezing and Jim seemed untroubled. Perhaps he was turning down the discomfort dial, or maybe he was just so focused that he didn't notice minor distractions like rain blowing in his face. Either way, it was a trick that Blair had never mastered. The best he could do was hold on and endure.

Afer a few eternities the howling wind died down, and Blair raised his head to find they were stopping at a rest area. Jim put a finger to his lips before Blair could speak. The trailer rocked as the owners climbed out of the cab and slammed the doors. Jim waited until they had disappeared into the restrooms, then patted Blair's shoulder encouragingly.

"Come on, let's get inside."

"Huh?"

"In the trailer. Quick, before they come back out!" Jim helped Blair climb stiffly and one-handedly down the ladder, then urged him into the trailer.

Blair sighed as he stepped into the shelter and relative warmth. "Not that I'm complaining, but explain to me why this is safe now when it wasn't before?"

Jim was peering through the tiny window in the side of the trailer. "It's still a risk," he said in a hushed voice. "But if we stay on top, sooner or later one of those truck drivers is going to call the state police. Anyway, I heard the wife say she would take over the driving for a while. I'm betting the husband won't let her drive unsupervised."

"Sounds like a safe bet to me. You been taking classes in human behavior while I wasn't watching?"

Jim grinned. "Quiet now, they're coming back."

At first Jim tried not to leave their mark on anything, but as Blair's shivering continued unabated, he relented at last and told him to take off his wet clothes and get into the narrow bed.

"You should get warm too, man," Blair urged as he pulled the covers around himself.

"I'm fine."

"You seen that guy? The husband? He's about your size. I bet you could wear some of his clothes."

"I'm not going to steal from them, Sandburg."

"Come on man, at least it's not as bad as stealing a car. You need to get dry, and you're going to be conspicuous as hell walking around in those things."

Jim consented to borrow a blanket and dry himself off, but he drew the line at stealing.

Hours passed as they moved steadily north. The couple made a stop for lunch around eleven. Blair and Jim got dressed and ready to run in case the owners checked inside before traveling on, but they merely switched drivers again and got back on the road.

"I could have used some lunch myself," Blair grumbled.

"We don't have any money," Jim reminded him. "We'll eat in Cascade. It shouldn't be long now."

"No dinner, up all night, no breakfast . . ."

"Get some rest," Jim said gently. "And, Chief?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for coming after me."

Blair flushed a little. "It wasn't like Blessing gave me a lot of choice."

"Right. You know I wouldn't have gotten away on my own."

"I just did what I had to. But . . . you're welcome." Blair pulled the blankets up around his shoulders and closed his eyes just for a minute.

* * *

"Wake up, Chief."

"Huh?"

"We're home."

Blair looked around in confusion. It didn't look like home . . . the trailer! In a flood he remembered the whole dreadful night, and the even worse day that had preceded it. "Ugh."

"Yeah. We're in stop-and-go traffic now. I think we should get out at the next light."

"Okay." Blair sat up and reached for his hiking boots, which were quite muddy after their trek through the woods. "Where are we?"

"I'm not sure. I heard them say we were getting off at exit seven, but after that I lost track of the turnings."

"Somewhere midtown, then."

"Yeah, I'd say so."

"Okay. We need to get to Ninth Street. I forget the exact address, but I can find the place."

Jim frowned. "What's there?"

"Probably a vacant lot, by now. It's the beginning of our escape route, if everything I set up works out right." Blair remembered Blessing ordering his man to follow Rafe, and prayed that he hadn't gotten a friend hurt or killed.

The next time the trailer came to a stop, they stepped out of the small door at the back, smiling at the astonished drivers ranked behind the trailer. When they reached the curb they found themselves at the corner of Sixteenth and Pacific.

"It's only about a mile and a half," Blair estimated. "But man, I wish we could stop for sandwiches on the way."

Blair didn't know if he was more relieved for Rafe's sake or their own when they reached the site and saw the familiar profile in the front of an unmarked sedan.

"What the -- Sandburg, isn't this the warehouse from that arson investigation?"

"It was. I suppose they're going to build something else here, now that it's burned down."

"What's here?"

"I asked Rafe to meet me here, in terms I figured he would understand and Blessing wouldn't." Blair paused. "Do you see anyone watching us or Rafe?"

Jim scanned the area slowly. "Clear as far as I can see."

"That's pretty far. Great, man, let's go." Blair jogged forward with renewed energy to meet the detective stepping out of his car.

Rafe stared at them. "Sandburg, you look like hell. You both do."

"Thanks a lot, Rafe. At least we're here. Did you bring my stuff?"

"Yeah, I got it. When you mentioned Dan Matson, I wasn't sure if you meant this place or his old home, so I've got Brown staking that out too."

"Cool, man." Blair froze as he recognized the duffel in the back seat. "Hey, you got my stuff from the train station! How did you find it?"

Rafe waggled his brows. "Friends in high places, what can I say?"

"Oh, wow. Hey, Jim!" Blair dug into the duffel and pulled out a Jags sweatshirt. "Put this on." It was baggy on him, so it should make it over Jim's broad shoulders.

Jim regarded the black fabric doubtfully. "What for?"

"Think of it as urban camouflage, man. Much better than that jungle print you're wearing. Too bad I can't lend you some jeans or something."

"I have sweatpants in the trunk," Rafe said slowly. "They might fit Jim."

"How bad do they smell?" Jim asked suspiciously.

Rafe grinned. "Well, at least they haven't been dragged through mud and splattered with motor oil."

Although the area was deserted, Jim ducked coyly behind the car to change pants. He now looked very casual, but not at all military.

"Seriously, Rafe, how did you find my stuff?"

Rafe grimaced. "Well, you remember how you were joking about me having Brown wait outside?"

"You mean he was really there?"

"Yeah, and when he saw the colonel bring you out, he followed. I had to keep telling him you wanted to go with Blessing, because Henri was sure you were being kidnapped."

"It was a little of both, really. But if Brown had interfered, I wouldn't have found Jim." Blair rooted through his backpack and hooked his glasses over his ears. "All right! Everything's still here. Even the bag I gave you."

"About that bag," Rafe said drily.

Blair looked up. "Did you have trouble?"

"You could say that. Guy broke into my house last night and tried to steal it."

"Yeah, Parry."

"Wait, you know the guy?"

"I just heard Blessing give him the order to go after you." Blair searched through the brown bag and sighed with relief when he found the envelope. "This is what he wanted. But he didn't get it, and you're not hurt -- right?"

"I'm fine. What's in there?"

"Something for Simon. You give this to him, okay?"

"`To be opened in the event of my death?'" Jim read from several feet away. "What the hell is it?"

"A key to a safe deposit box," Blair said. "With secrets inside. Make sure Simon gets that, will you, Rafe?" He dug through the rest of the bag. "At least we can get lunch now." He tucked a wad of bills in his pocket.

"Where did you get all that money?" Jim demanded.

"I cleaned out my savings -- what there was -- and sold my laptop."

"You did what? Sandburg, what the hell are you up to here?"

Blair just smiled. "Rafe, could you drop us at the airport, you think?"

Rafe looked between them. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"No, he doesn't!" Jim insisted.

"What did I tell you last night, Rafe?" Blair asked.

"You said you knew what you were doing."

"Right. And I got Jim back, didn't I? Now, we need a ride to the airport, and we need you to keep quiet about seeing us. Does that sound okay?"

"You got it. Ellison, you want the front seat?"

"Sandburg . . ." the Sentinel growled.

"Just trust me, man. I'll explain it as soon as I can."

Rafe reached for the radio mike as they left the ashy lot. "Okay if I tell Henri you're back?"

Blair hung over the seat. "Uh . . . as long as you don't tell anyone else. I mean, Simon or Joel, but not every cop on the channel."

"You got it." Rafe raised the mike to his mouth. "Rafe to Brown."

Static crackled. "Brown here. You get anything?"

"The mother hen found the chick. You can go back to base, I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Chick?" Jim said incredulously.

"Hey, it's you, babe!" Blair laughed. "Whoa, Rafe, turn left here."

"This isn't the way to the airport," said the detective, spinning the wheel obediently.

"I know, but it is the way to --"

"Wonderburger!" Jim said in delight.

"Told you, Jim. I'm really hungry. Just take us to the drive-through, Rafe, then we can head for the airport."

On the twenty-minute drive, Blair and Jim happily scattered greasy paper and french-fried crumbs over Rafe's car. His stomach replete, Blair asked the detective to drop them at the departures terminal of the Cascade International Airport.

Jim found them a quiet spot in the bustling terminal. "So where we going, Chief? I mean, that's a lot of money you got there, but last minute tickets are expensive."

"I know."

"They're also traceable."

"We're not buying plane tickets, Jim."

"Then why did we come to the airport?"

"Because it's a good place to rent a car."

"A car."

"Yeah. Cheaper than flying, isn't it?"

"Blair, car rentals can be traced, too."

"Don't worry, man, I took care of it." Blair dug in his bag of goodies again. "Here."

Jim studied the card. "An Oregon driver's license?"

"Yep." Blair waved a similar card at him. "Me, I'm Canadian."

"How the hell did you manage this, Chief?"

"Come on, Jim, you don't start college at age sixteen without knowing where to get fake IDs."

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't think I wanted to know that."

"Now you sound like Simon. I'm just sorry I didn't have the time to get us passports and birth certificates. We'll have to do a better job as soon as we get the chance."

"A better job of what?"

"Building new identities." Blair gestured at the license Jim was still holding. "You're Jim Franklin from Oregon. I'm Gary Sanderson from British Columbia. You're going to drive me back home across the border, where it'll be a hell of a lot harder for the Army to find us."

"Us? Blair, why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Sandburg, you have a life here. You can't just up and leave!"

"Why not?"

"What about your degree? What about -- your mother?"

"Mom will be cool with it once I explain. I'm sorry about the PhD thing, but I don't really need any external validation of my worth. Anyway, we can't stay here."

"No, Sandburg, I can't stay here. I'm the one that's on the run. You can go back home and take up where you left off. Hell, I'll give you the loft! There's no need for you to leave the country with me."

"Jim, I'm your partner."

"I'm not a cop anymore!"

"But you're still a Sentinel. You need me."

"Even to the point of giving up your dissertation? I thought that's what this was all about!"

"Come on, man, get a clue! I'm with you all the way. Wherever we are, whoever we are, we need to stay together. Look, if I just reappear in Cascade, Blessing's going to find me. Even if he doesn't court martial me or something for helping you escape --"

"He can't court martial a civilian," Jim interrupted.

"He's still going to want me for what I know. He'll try to use me against you."

"Blair, he can't do that if I'm not around. You'll be safe once I'm gone."

Blair shook his head disbelievingly. "Jim, this is not something I ever expected to say to you, but you are being totally naive here. Blessing's been talking to Lee Brackett. He's studied up on the Sentinel thing, on you and me. He knows if he threatens me, you'll come running -- no matter what it takes. He'll just use me to get you to surrender."

"That's illegal, Sandburg. So far Blessing has stuck with the law --"

"Bullshit, man! He drugged you, he ordered his guy to break into Rafe's place, and he would have kidnapped me if I hadn't gone willingly. You said it yourself, the man's a zealot!"

"I didn't say that --"

"Jim. This is the man who isolated and drugged you for a debriefing when you hadn't done anything wrong. Seven years later, one look at the guy, and you tossed your cookies! Now, you really want me to go back to the loft so he can pick me up at his leisure?"

Jim just stared at him.

"Right. So I'm going with you. It's best for you, and it's safer for me. Now, can we quit making a scene that everybody here will remember when they get asked about it?"

Jim rubbed his ear unhappily and looked around the terminal. "The car rental agencies are on the baggage level, right?"

Blair grinned hugely. "All right, man. We are outta here!"

* * *

Jim carried Blair's duffel as they headed out to the rental lots. "So explain to me again how I'm forgettable?"

"I didn't say that, man. I said you should rent the car because I can't write just now, and anyway everyone would remember me."

"Right. I'm forgettable."

"No, I stick out like my own sore thumb." Blair held out the injured hand as an example. "I mean, even if people didn't usually notice my hair and stuff, right now I look like I spent the night rolling around in the woods!"

"You did." Amusement played around Jim's mouth.

"Exactly. I had no idea your ego was so sensitive, man!"

Jim laughed. "This is the one. G138."

Blair looked at the compact car Jim had gotten them. "It's a stickshift."

"Yeah. Cheaper that way."

"Jim, my hand is swollen up like a balloon! There's no way I can handle a stick."

"Good, because I'm driving. You are going to get some rest." Jim unlocked the doors and tossed the duffel into the back seat.

Blair crossed to the passenger side. "Man, and I thought the owner of that camper was a prime example of control mentality. You should be a case study."

"I am, Chief. A throwback to primitive man. Speaking of saving money--" Jim leaned over casually to fasten Blair's seatbelt "-- how are we planning to return that car? I hope you weren't planning to abandon it somewhere. Franklin and Sanderson need clean records."

"We can return it in Vancouver. Tell them our plans changed."

"Can we afford the penalty?"

"Don't worry, man, we'll get by. Haven't you ever been broke and homeless before?"

"No."

"Well, I'll show you the ropes. It's easy when you know how."

* * *

Blair dozed for a few hours as they drove northward, coming fully awake only when Jim stopped for dinner in Mount Vernon. They ate at a steakhouse, Jim getting a rare sirloin while Blair opted for the salad bar and a baked potato. He wasn't concerned as much about his cholesterol level as he was about the fact that he couldn't wield a knife with any strength. It would just be way too embarrassing to have Jim cut his meat for him.

They had been back on the road less than ten minutes when Blair noticed his partner's tension. "Something wrong?"

"We might have a tail," Jim said, glancing in the mirror.

"You sure?"

"No. I thought I noticed them about an hour ago, so I got off the road for dinner. They didn't follow, and I figured I was just being paranoid. But those look like the same headlights back there again -- Jeep headlights."

"This happens, you know, man. People traveling in the same direction, similar speeds -- you tend to see the same car more than once."

"I don't like it, Chief."

Blair reached for the map. "Okay, get off at the next exit. There's a secondary road that parallels the highway for a while. We can find out if they're really following us."

Jim exited the highway and made a few turns at random. "Still behind us."

"Can you see who it is?"

"The headlights are too bright."

"Look past them, man. Your eyes can adjust. Go on, I'll hold the wheel."

Jim stared into the mirror until Blair was afraid the Sentinel had zoned. "It's them," he reported at last. "Blessing and his pals."

"How the hell did they find us?" Blair inquired of the air.

"Shit!" Jim grabbed the wheel suddenly from Blair's hand and swerved, just as the rear windshield shattered. "Get your head down!"

"Why are they shooting at us?" Blair demanded, trying to duck and look out the back simultaneously. "I thought they wanted us alive!"

"They do. They're aiming for the tires now." Jim grimaced as bullets pocked the rear of the car. "Uh-oh."

"What?"

"That ricochet just hit the gas tank."

"It did?" Blair craned his head and saw a plume of dark smoke rising behind them. "Jim, the car's on fire."

"I know." Jim's eyes flashed over the mirror, the road ahead, the gauges on the dash. "Gas tank's nearly full -- it shouldn't explode."

"But it'll burn real hot. Jim, you gotta do something!" Blair could see flames shooting out the back end now.

"All right, get ready to jump when I tell you. Three, two, one --"

"My seatbelt's jammed. I can't --" Blair's words were lost in a screech of metal as the car went off the road.

* * *

"Blair!"

Someone was calling his name. Blair groaned.

"Blaaaaaaaaiirrr!"

"Okay, Mom," he mumbled. No, that wasn't right. Different voice. "All right Jim, I'm up already." He rolled over. "Whoa!"

Memory rushed back as Blair saw the remains of the rental car burning furiously. He must have loosened the seatbelt catch enough that he was thrown clear when the vehicle rolled. But he was still much too close to the flames. He crawled away, discovering nasty bruises on his shoulder and hip in the process. Once he'd covered a dozen yards, he looked around for Jim.

At the top of the slope, backlit by headlights, two men were dragging a third towards the road. Blair's eyes refused to focus properly, but man in the middle had to be Jim. He wasn't putting up a fight or anything; had they drugged him already?

"No, wait -- Jim . . ." Blair tried to get to his feet, but he couldn't stand straight. He ended up crawling again, trying to get to the top of the slope before they took Jim. "Leave him alone, you jerks!"

A motor revved, and the headlights turned away. By the time Blair reached the road, it was empty save for a pair of red lights receding in the distance. He slumped on the gravel shoulder, in the middle of nowhere, without a resource to his name, and watched Jim's enemies carry him away.

A car passed without stopping. A second one pulled over. Blair kept his eyes fixed on the spot where Blessing's taillights had disappeared. Indifferent passers-by or helpful motorists had nothing to do with him. Jim was gone.

"Sandburg! You all right?"

Blair's head whipped around at the familiar voice. "Simon?"

"How bad are you hurt? Oh, my God." Simon stared at the burning wreckage on the floor of the ravine. "Tell me Jim wasn't in there."

"No. No, they took him. Simon, we have to get him back!" Blair lurched to his feet.

"Easy, Blair, we'll get him. Are you sure you're not hurt?"

"Just bruises. Let's go, we'll lose them!" Blair staggered to Simon's car, surprised to find Joel Taggart in the front seat.

"Hey Blair, you okay? You look like hell."

"I'm fine. Can we just go?"

"It's okay, Sandburg, we're not going to lose them." Simon buckled himself in. "Rafe and Brown are right behind them."

"What? How'd you find us?"

"Same way Blessing found you. He put a transmitter in the collar of that shirt he put Jim in."

"What?"

"He got to Portland and found out you and Jim had flown the coop. So he activated the transmitter, but you were out of range. He figured you would come back to Cascade, so he hopped a jet and got there in time to catch up to you two."

Blair gaped. "How'd you find all that out?"

"That guy that broke into Rafe's apartment -- Parry. Rafe caught him and brought him in. Rafe was sure the guy had been with Colonel Blessing at the loft, but we couldn't get him to talk at first. Then Rafe spoke to you and got the guy's name and the fact that you witnessed Blessing ordering him to break in. We had to do some fast talking --"

"Rafe scared the shit out of the guy with his bad cop routine," Taggart put in.

"But we got him to tell us what Blessing's next move would be. He told us about the transmitter and what frequency to check on. We were just catching up to you when we realized you had company."

"Damn," Blair said, thumping his fist against his leg before he remembered that both were very tender. "I told Jim we should steal some clothes, but he had to be such a damn Boy Scout!"

"Are you telling me you tried to corrupt an officer of the law?" Simon said incredulously.

"No way, man. He's not a cop anymore, remember?"

"Wrong. I spent the last twenty-four hours pulling in all the favors I could think of. Between Blessing kidnapping you and the other evidence of wrongdoing, we managed to get Jim's reinstatement revoked."

"Oh." Blair adjusted his thinking. "So does that mean he doesn't get seven years of back pay from the Army?"

Simon let up on the gas, slowing their breakneck speed. "We should have caught up with Rafe and Brown by now. Call them, Joel."

Blair frowned as he saw Taggart dialing a cell phone. "Why don't you just use your radio?"

"We could, but Blessing might have a police scanner. Rafe, what you got?" Joel listened, frowning, then relayed the answer. "They turned off onto a dirt road. About a mile past where we found Sandburg, on the right. There's a fence. Sign says it's Federal land."

Simon grabbed the phone away from Taggart. "Is the fence electrified? No? Then cut it, or ram it, or whatever you have to do. This is hot pursuit, and we have probable cause on Blessing -- anything else we can sort out later." Simon tossed the phone back to Taggart, who fielded it neatly. The car slewed around in a squealing one-eighty and headed back down the road.

By the time they found the road Rafe had indicated, the two detectives had cut the locks and opened the gate. Simon pulled up next to Brown's car.

"Everybody get your vests on," the tall captain ordered. "We're going in."

"What is this place, anyway?" Taggart demanded as he fastened the velcro on his vest.

"I called Records and asked," Rafe replied. "It's used by the Army for wilderness exercises -- mock combat and stuff like that."

"That's why Blessing headed straight here once he grabbed Jim," Blair muttered.

"Sandburg, do you need help with that?"

"No, I got it, Simon." Blair paid closer attention to his fastenings.

"So what are we looking at when we get inside?" Simon asked Rafe.

"Anyone's guess. There's nearly twenty square miles to this place, rough ground and trees everywhere. I don't even know how far the road goes in."

"I think they drugged Jim," Blair warned. "Don't expect him to be much help."

"Shit," Simon muttered. "Now look Sandburg, I know it would be pointless telling you to wait here, but you stay right behind me and keep your head down, you got that?"

Blair nodded.

"All right. We'll take Brown's car and leave mine blocking the gate in case they try to circle back. Everybody ready?"

They drove down the uneven dirt road with only Brown's parking lights illuminating the way. He stopped and cut the lights as soon as Blessing's Jeep came into view.

"There's a building there," Rafe whispered. "See it? Cheap tin construction. Probably a warehouse or garage."

"Or barracks," Simon concluded. "Taggart and I will go in. Rafe and Brown around the sides."

Blair followed closely on Simon's heels until an idea occurred to him. Digging in his pocket, he found the Swiss Army knife that Brown had rescued from the train station.

Simon soon realized that his shadow had fallen back. "Sandburg, where the hell are you?" he hissed into the darkness.

"Over here." Blair crouched down by the jeep and drove his largest knife into one of the tires. "Just thought I'd slow them down if they try to get away."

"Fine, but next time, ask! Now come on."

Simon and Joel led the way into the cavernous building with guns and flashlights outstretched. With stripped cots against one wall and very basic kitchen facilities, the place did indeed appear to be a barracks. Simon stalked among the unpowered appliances in the kitchen area, checking each corner for danger.

"Captain!" came Rafe's voice from the back of the building. "Looks like they went out this way."

They all gathered at the back door and stared out into the woods. "They must've heard us coming," Taggart concluded.

"Fine. They know we're here already, let's announce ourselves," said Simon. "Colonel Blessing!" he bellowed impressively. "This is the Cascade PD. You're in a lot of trouble right now. Kidnapping, conspiracy to commit armed robbery, misuse of government resources. Even your superiors aren't going to back you up this time. Why don't you think about cutting your losses and handing Ellison over to us?"

There was silence as five pairs of eyes scanned the trees.

"Hey Morrison!" Blair yelled suddenly. "Turner! You guys out there? You know what kind of man you're working for? He's a criminal! Come on, Morrison, you heard him ordering Parry to rob a police officer. And Turner, you know Jim was drugged against his will. Is this why you guys joined the Army, to beat up on honest Americans?"

"I think I heard something," Brown whispered. "Over that way."

Simon gestured him into the darkness.

"Y'know, I served with Colonel Blessing in the Gulf!" Rafe called out. "He saved me and half my unit from the Iraqis. What he didn't tell us at the time was that he was the one who killed two of my men. They were injured, and he didn't want them slowing us down. So he bashed their skulls in and told us the Iraqis had done it. How long do you think it'll be before he turns against you? How long before he considers you a liability?"

At the next pause in Rafe's diatribe, they all heard voices. Simon, Joel and Rafe spread out and searched for the source of the sound. One of the voices rose in unintelligible fury, and a shot rang out.

"Jim!" Blair broke from Simon's side and dashed into the trees.

"Sandburg, get back here!"

Blair ignored the Captain's shout, heading straight towards the sound of someone moaning and rolling on the ground. He nearly tripped over the prone figure. Kneeling to get a better look, he saw that it was one of Blessing's men -- the one whose name he didn't know. The man was clutching his stomach with bloody hands.

A powerful hand clamped on Blair's shoulder and hauled him up. "I thought I told you to stay behind me!" growled a familiar voice.

"He needs help, Simon." Blair was still gasping with relief that it wasn't Jim.

"He'll get help, but after we're all safe. Blessing's still out there, and he still has Jim."

Blair got to his feet and peered into the darkness, straining every sense for any sign of his partner.

"Did you know their names, Colonel?" came Rafe's voice from a few hundred feet away. "Did you even care?"

"Jesus, he's going to draw them to him!" Simon whispered. "How come I get all the crazies in my department?"

"The one with the shrapnel in his leg, that was Tom Watson. He was twenty years old. He played a mean bass guitar, and he was going to start a landscaping business when he got out."

Blair grabbed Simon's arm and pointed. They could just make out the silhouette of a large man moving through the trees in the direction of Rafe's voice.

"And Sri -- Abi Srinivasan. He had a wife and kids back home. You know the Iraqis picked on him because he was dark-skinned. But he survived that. He held on through all the beatings and interrogations, until his rescuers whammed his head through a wall."

Simon stepped forward stealthily, moving almost as quietly as Jim. The figure stalking Rafe started to turn, but it was too late; the butt of Simon's pistol laid him low.

"You killed them, didn't you, Colonel? It took me a while to figure it out, and even then I couldn't believe it -- until I saw what you did to Ellison. Then I remembered the bodies were still warm. Both of them. What are the chances the Iraqis killed them just minutes before you showed up?"

Blair crept through the woods in the direction the soldier had come from. If he could trace the man's steps backward, he might find Jim. He had gone only a short distance when he heard muttered curses and the sound of something heavy being dragged. Drawing closer, he could just make out Blessing hauling Jim to his feet.

"What about it, Colonel?" yelled Rafe. "You ready to face charges for killing men on your own side?"

Gunfire broke out, entirely too near. Blair heard Simon shouting instructions. Blessing reacted instantly, pulling out a pistol and crouching down. The Sentinel stood motionless, as if zoning out.

Someone came running through the woods, footsteps punctuated by gunshots. Blessing ducked behind a tree and returned fire. Jim remained in the open, a perfect target.

"Jim, get down!" Blair yelled as the shots came closer. He ran out and tackled his partner around the waist while Blessing and the others shot it out.

Blair heard three shots in quick succession and a high-pitched cry from the woods. He quivered with tension, mashing Jim's face into the ground.

"We got him, he's down!" That was Brown's voice near where the shooter had been running. Simon and Joel were talking somewhere in the same area.

A rustling of leaves underfoot made Blair stiffen and turn. "Well, well. So the little professor didn't burn to death after all."

Blair sat up and faced the shadowy figure, keeping himself between Blessing and Jim.

"This is all your fault, you little shit," said the colonel venomously. "Brackett warned me about you, said if I wanted to control Ellison I should get rid of you first. But I thought you would be useful. I should have listened to him and had you drugged when we first picked you up. Or shot."

"It doesn't make a difference," Blair told him. "Jim would never do what you want, even if I was dead -- even if you locked him up forever."

"So it really is over," Blessing said slowly. Footsteps and voices were approaching through the trees. "At least I can have a little satisfaction before I go out. Ellison is broken, and as for you --" he raised his pistol and pointed it at Blair.

This wasn't the first time Blair had stared down a gun muzzle. Always before, the shot he heard would come from somewhere off to one side, and the gun would fly away or the shooter would crumple. Jim had always saved him before. But now Jim was unarmed, lying motionless in the dirt behind him.

A gunshot sounded among the trees to the right. Blessing's gun fired a moment later, and Blair flinched. But the bullet had missed. The colonel was toppling to the ground.

Blair turned to see Rafe walking out of the trees. The detective stopped and stared at the colonel's still form. "I guess his murdering days are over."

Blair swallowed. "Thanks, man," he managed.

Rafe looked straight at him for the first time. "Is Jim all right?"

Blair rolled his partner over onto his back. "He isn't hurt, but he's weird. Maybe drugs." He remembered the colonel had said Jim was 'broken,' and his heart clenched in his chest.

"Rafe!" Simon stalked towards them, wielding a flashlight now that the shooting was over. "Go help Brown and Taggart with the clean-up. I'll take care of Jim."

Rafe smiled crookedly in the harsh light. "Special, huh?" he murmured to Blair. Then he walked away.

Simon loomed over Blair. "You all right, Sandburg?"

"I'm fine. But there's something wrong with Jim."

"Was he hit?"

"No, he's not injured, he just -- look at him!"

Jim was sitting up now, apparently conscious but staring blankly into space.

"Is this what you call a zone-out?"

"No, he would have snapped out of it by now if it were."

"Jim, can you stand up?" Simon grabbed Jim's forearm and hauled. The Sentinel rose to his feet and swayed slightly.

"Simon?" Jim's voice was weak and strangely-pitched. "Simon, is that you?"

"Yeah, Jim, it's me."

Something about the tilt of the Sentinel's head was familiar to Blair. "Simon, I don't think --"

"Blair's dead." Jim's voice cracked on the words, but his face remained stony and expressionless.

"What? Jim, he's right here!"

"Simon, he can't see. He's blind."

Simon gave Blair an astonished look, then waved a hand in front of Jim's face. The Sentinel never blinked.

Simon swallowed hard. "Jim, Sandburg's right next to you. Say something, Blair!"

Jim didn't react. "He was in the car when it went up."

"Oh, God." Blair recognized the signs. Jim's mouth was closed, his chin tilted up slightly. He was relying on his sense of smell and nothing else. "If he was staring straight at the car and listening for me when it blew up, his senses could have been overloaded. He can't see or hear anything."

"Jesus." Simon fell back a step. "What do we do?"

With the problem identified, Blair knew how to work around it. He stepped closer to his partner, talking soothingly although Jim couldn't hear him. "Come on, Jim, you recognized Simon by his scent. It's those cigars, isn't it? Well, you should be able to recognize me. You're always complaining about my herbal shampoos. Come on, man, just pay attention!" He grabbed Jim's hand and set it on his shoulder.

The hand moved listlessly, encountering Blair's tangled hair. It rose slowly and felt his head, then his face.

"Blair?" Jim whispered.

"Yeah, it's me, man."

Jim began to run his hands frantically down the anthropologist's body.

"What the hell's he doing, frisking you?" Simon demanded.

"He needs to know I'm in one piece. Hey, watch it man, I'm ticklish there!" Blair captured Jim's roving hands and placed one against the side of his mouth. "I'm okay, Jim," he enunciated clearly.

Suddenly he was pulled into a suffocating embrace. Jim nuzzled into his hair, inhaling his scent.

"Chief, thank God, thank God," the Sentinel breathed huskily. Then he raised his head. "Simon? Simon, come here."

"I'm here, Jim." Simon laid a hand on his friend's shoulder.

Without releasing Blair, Jim felt his way up Simon's arm to his face. "Is Blair really all right?"

"He's fine, Jim."

"Just nod yes or no," Blair advised, realizing what Jim was trying to do.

Simon nodded emphatically.

"Did you get Blessing?"

Simon nodded.

"Alive?"

Simon shook his head.

Jim let out his breath sharply and sort of slumped onto Blair's shoulders.

"Let's get him out of here, Simon," Blair urged. "He needs to get home."

"Shouldn't we be taking him to a hospital?" Simon asked.

"Not while he's this upset. The doctors wouldn't know what to make of it. They'd say there's no damage and it's hysterical blindness, and they'd try to put him in a psych ward. Come on, Jim, watch your step." Blair led his partner gently by the elbow as they made their way back to the clearing by the barracks.

Taggart came panting up. "Simon, we got two dead, one with a concussion, and one shot in the gut. We've called for a helicopter to lift them out to the hospital. Does Jim need a doctor?"

"Sandburg thinks he'll be all right when, uh, when the drugs wear off."

"But we should get him home as soon as we can," Blair put in.

"We will," Simon assured him. "Brown, your car's closer. Give me your keys, and you can drive mine home."

Brown grinned broadly. "You got it, Captain. Can we play your CDs?"

Simon glared. "Just don't get any scratches on it."

* * *

In the early evening of the following day, Blair sat on the couch watching Jim get himself a beer. The Sentinel didn't bother trying to pour into a glass, but he retrieved a bottle with ease, found the opener and uncapped it, and sniffed the contents carefully before taking a swig.

Blair smiled proudly, remembering how dependent Jim had seemed when they first got home yesterday. He had refused to leave Blair's side even in the loft -- even while Blair was trying to straighten up the mess Parry had made searching the place. Since Blair's first and fondest wish -- and probably Jim's as well -- had been to get in the shower and get clean, it had been a little tricky at first. But today Jim was moving around easily on his own.

Blair felt his eyelids starting to droop, and scowled. He had slept half the day away already; he was not going to drop off again. He forced his eyes open just as Jim's head turned sharply.

There was a knock on the door.

Blair answered to find Simon waiting in the hall. The captain stepped in and fixed immediately upon Jim; the Sentinel was leaning casually against the refrigerator, his eyes shielded by dark sunglasses. "So how's Helen Keller today?"

"I heard that," Jim growled.

Blair laughed at the captain's startlement. "The doctor said his hearing is normal. That means just a little better than yours or mine. I think he'll get the Sentinel level of hearing back in a few days."

"And what about his eyes?"

"Talk about me like I'm not here, why don't you?" Jim navigated unerringly into the living area and settled on the couch.

"The doctor couldn't find anything wrong," Blair said in answer to Simon's question.

"Like you said," Simon predicted.

Blair settled next to Jim. "Yeah. I figure there was no damage to Jim's eyes or ears, but the nerves probably got stunned because he had his senses turned up high. So I got the doctor to tell me about treating stunned optic nerves, even though he didn't believe that could be the problem."

"Well, at least you managed to keep Jim out of the psych ward. So how do you treat stunned nerves?"

"I'm supposed to keep my eyes covered for a few days and avoid bright lights for at least a week," Jim summarized.

Blair nodded. "It's best to not even try to use the eyes for three days. If I could get him to agree to a blindfold . . ."

"No way, Chief. The glasses are enough."

"So, can you see or not?" Simon pressed.

Jim smirked. "I don't know, I'm not supposed to try."

"Ellison."

"I can just make out the overhead lights, and the outline of the windows. The rest is shadows."

"But you could see more without the dark glasses on, couldn't you?"

"Uh, Simon --" Blair started.

"We had a big fight about this," said Jim, still grinning. "I promised not to take them off."

"He's doing fine, Simon. Just let his eyes recover at their own pace."

Simon patted the air. "Fine, fine, I just wanted to know the situation. I'm always happy to give one of my detectives a week off with no notice."

Jim snorted. "Could've been worse."

"I know that, believe me." Simon glanced at Blair. "Actually, there was something I wanted to ask . . ."

"Yeah?" Blair leaned forward eagerly.

Simon grimaced. "Sandburg, would you mind?"

"Oh. Sorry." Blair got to his feet.

"Hang on, Chief. I think whatever Simon wants to say he can say to both of us."

Blair swallowed, eyes darting between the two.

Simon rubbed at his eyes. "All right, fine. Look, I was just wondering, this whole business of you being blind and deaf . . ."

"Yeah?"

"Are you sure it was caused by the explosion?"

Jim leaned back against the cushions, his expression shuttered. "It was pretty bright when those flames went up, and I was staring straight at it."

"But your hearing?"

Jim shrugged. "Sandburg has all these theories about how one sense can affect another."

Blair jumped in. "Yeah -- see, when Jim is using two senses at once and they're both turned way up -- I call it piggybacking --"

"That's great, Sandburg, but I'm thinking there was something else involved."

Blair frowned. "Like what?"

Simon studied both of them for a minute. "Jim thought you were dead, Sandburg. He thought he watched you burn to death."

"So?" Blair looked at Jim in puzzlement. The Sentinel was absolutely stone-faced.

"Well, Jim?" Simon demanded. "Was that it?"

Jim sighed, his jaw loosening slowly. "Maybe. It might have been part of it."

"I don't get it, part of what?" Blair asked.

"Remember after Danny Choi died?" Jim asked softly.

"Yeah. Oh, you mean -- you mean you went blind because you thought I was dead?" Blair's voice rose dramatically up the scale.

"Wait a minute. Did you say this happened before?" Simon demanded.

"Not really, not like this. Jim, why would you react like that?"

The corner of Jim's mouth twitched upwards. "Sometimes it amazes me what a low opinion you have of yourself."

"Low opinion?"

"Still don't get it, Chief? Simon does."

Blair looked at the captain.

"I just want to know what I'm going to have to deal with if something ever happens to Sandburg," Simon said gravely.

"If something happens to Blair, Simon, the best thing you could do would be to leave me alone with my gun."

"Now wait a minute --" Blair was becoming seriously alarmed.

"The gang's all here, Chief."

"What?" asked Simon and Blair in unison, a moment before someone pounded at the door.

When Simon opened the door, Brown, Rafe and Taggart all poured into the apartment. "Hey Jim, how you doing?" Joel boomed.

Jim stood up and put on a social smile. "Hi guys." He started to reach for the dark glasses, but Blair slapped his hand away.

"Did those drugs wear off yet?" Brown asked.

Jim shrugged. "Mostly. My eyes are still pretty sensitive."

"Oh, I get it," said Taggart. "That's why the sunglasses, huh?"

"Yeah. So what brings you folks around?"

"We thought you might like to go out to dinner," Rafe suggested. "To celebrate being liberated -- again."

Jim grinned. "That's a great idea."

"Jim . . ." began Blair.

"Somebody'll have to read the menu to me, though." Jim waved at the glasses in explanation.

"Unless we go to Wonderburger," Brown snickered. "You got that one memorized."

"No way," Simon put in. "If I'm going to be involved in this, we're going somewhere nice."

"Del Monico's?" Taggart suggested.

"How about the Golden Wok?" said Brown.

"Francine's," Simon stated conclusively.

The others immediately began squabbling about driving arrangements.

"Sandburg, could you grab my jacket?" Jim asked softly, still smiling.

Blair clamped a hand on his partner's arm. "Jim . . ." he hissed.

"I know, Chief -- we have to talk. And not just about me -- there's a little matter of a safe deposit box I wanted to ask you about? But not tonight. Right now, all you need to know is that you're important to me, okay? I don't even want to think about having to get along without you."

Blair remembered the shaken man that had clung to his side the previous night, and realized Jim hadn't just been alarmed at being blind and deaf -- he'd been reassuring himself constantly that Blair was all right. "Okay. No problem," he said weakly. "With you all the way, remember?"

"That's my partner." Jim smiled broadly and let Blair lead him through the door.


End file.
